


Brittle

by Aviena



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Suspected Cheating, Vaginal Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 15:43:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5831323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aviena/pseuds/Aviena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christ, why did everything about her have to be so beautiful?</p><p>The trouble was that Deacon wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Not by a long shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brittle

Charmer came home late that evening, dusty, exhausted and spattered with dried blood. It wasn’t hers, of course, but the splotchy bruise spreading down her left side certainly was. It looked much worse than it felt, and Preston had just about had an aneurysm when she insisted on leaving the Castle with the purple and yellow mass peeking out from beneath the hem of her shirt. Charmer had almost exhausted her supply of stim paks trying to bring the colour down.

Deacon was always telling her that working with the Minutemen was going to go badly for her one day. He normally _relished_ being proven right, but he wasn’t going to like this.

Charmer crept back into the Home Plate with her tail between her legs. Deacon was already home for the evening. She could hear him moving around upstairs. He would be expecting her; Charmer had promised him she’d be home on time. They had celebration plans: their half-iversary. The six month mark. Six months wouldn’t have seemed like much to a slick city lawyer of 2077 – but in the wasteland, six months was worth a fucking medal.

Charmer took a coat from the hall stand, shrugged it on and buttoned it all the way to her throat before she turned on the downstairs lights. She quickly checked herself out in the hall mirror. She couldn’t see the bruise beneath the coat, but _Jesus_ , she could definitely still feel it.

“Hey there, sugar.” Deacon poked his head over the lip over the stair, grinning like a kid at Christmas, and Charmer tried to play it casual.

“Long time no see, handsome.” She almost skipped across the floor to look up at him from the bottom of the stairs. Deacon could always make her smile, no matter the day, no matter her worries. Some days, like today, all it took was a smile of his own. Others, it was his quiet laugh; that gleam in his eye when he fed her a tall story; the whisper of his breath across her bare skin; the calming rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek.

It felt like more than six months. Charmer wanted it to be forever.

Deacon looked a little shifty, hiding there on the landing. After a moment, Charmer understood why. He was wearing a _tux_ \- a clean one, at that - sans sunglasses, looking like he’d just stepped off the pages of a high-end fashion magazine; like a goddamn gift to women everywhere.

Or maybe just to Charmer.

Deacon’s smiled widened as he watched her drink in the sight of him, and he preened like the world’s sexiest peacock, plucking and plumping his bowtie and extending one leg to check the shine on his shoes. He cocked his head _just so_ , letting the light catch his teeth while he grinned. Charmer could have jumped his bones right then, but the flare of white hot pain down her left side as she mounted the stairs reminded her why that was a bad idea.

“Jesus, Dee. Am I underdressed?”

He chuckled as he pulled her close, planting a kiss on the side of her neck, sneaking one hand over her right hip to squeeze her ass. He smelled like expensive aftershave and cut-price soap.

“Maybe a little _over_ dressed. Just to put the idea out there: we _could_ both get naked. No need to worry about dress codes then.”

Charmer laughed, head tipped back to give him better access to her neck, and he sucked gently on her pulse point. Oh, how she’d like to take him up on that suggestion… But Deacon would _lose it_ if he found out she’d gone behind his back to help the Minutemen take the Castle. She’d promised Deacon she’d stop putting herself in danger to help them, but she couldn’t leave Preston and his militia to go it alone. If she was honest, she knew that Preston - and more specifically, the way he puppy-dogged around at her side - accounted for most of the problem Deacon had with the Minutemen. But she couldn’t condemn a man for flirting, even if it was inappropriate.

She couldn’t let Deacon see the bruise, either. She lacked Deacon’s talent for lying. Maybe she could suggest some role play, of the fuck-me-from-behind-while-I’m-still-wearing-my-coat-and-don’t-ask-why-I-want-to-sleep-in-it variety. Somehow, Charmer didn’t think that plan would hold water.

“You sure know how to make a girl feel special,” Charmer murmured instead. “Celebrating our half-iversary with sex, huh?”

“What, you don’t like sex? When did that happen?”

“Did I say that?” Charmer cupped his face with her hands and captured his lips for a kiss, hooking one leg around the back of his calf. Deacon chuckled, low and comfortable, and Charmer thought her heart might explode for love of him.

Deacon pulled back slightly, moving his hands to encircle her waist. “Here’s an idea. How about we-“

“Ah!” Charmer couldn’t withhold a gasp as his hand passed over her injured side, wriggling away from his touch even as she kicked herself for her lack of self-control.

Deacon flinched, releasing his grip immediately, brow knotting in concern. “Shit, sugar, what did I do?”

Charmer tried to laugh it off. “Sorry,” she babbled. “I slept on a rock last night.”

Gentle as a summer breeze, Deacon unzipped her jacket and tugged up the hem of her shirt. Charmer had no explainable cause to stop him, no excuse to fall back on. She trembled faintly under his questing fingers, and Deacon’s eyes darkened with concern.

“Really, Dee, it’s nothing to worry –“

“Jesus Christ.” Deacon’s eyes widened in horror as he uncovered her mottled bruising, and Charmer found herself wishing he’d left his sunglasses on, if only to hide the look in his eyes. “What the hell happened?” His hand went to her right hip, while the other hovered over her injury protectively.

“Nothing, I’m telling you –“

“Did someone hurt you? Are you protecting them?”

 _Fuck_ , she felt so guilty.

“No, Dee.”

“Well, what happened? This is _not_ nothing.” She’d never seen him like this before: fierce and protective, like a mother Yao-Guai - but vulnerable and quaking in her rejection of his comfort, as if she were denying him something vital and precious. Charmer closed her eyes and leaned into his embrace, hating herself for abusing his trust.

“It was a Mirelurk Queen,” she confessed, her voice almost a whisper. “I went to help the Minutemen retake the Castle.”

Deacon stiffened, took a sharp breath, poised to fall like a man on the edge of an abyss. “I thought you were finished with them. You _promised_ you were finished with them.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you at least ask me to go with you?” 

That was the crux of it, of course: Charmer kept her life with Deacon and her life as part of the Minutemen entirely separate, both for her sanity and for Deacon’s safety. Deacon always waited with bated breath for her return, convinced that every departure would be the last he ever saw of her. Charmer would have liked to take him to meet Preston; to show him that she and Preston were comrades, colleagues and friends – and nothing more – but Charmer could not risk Deacon any more than Deacon wanted to risk her. Deacon faced danger for the Railroad all the time, and Charmer could do nothing about that - but she could sure as hell make sure _she_ didn’t do anything to subtract from his life expectancy.

But Charmer couldn’t say the words. “Love” wasn’t a word people like her and Deacon knew.

“I couldn’t,” was the only explanation she could offer him.

Deacon’s expression turned hard. “You don’t want me near Preston Garvey, do you?”

“That’s not it at all.”

Deacon backed off, arms folded, walls going up. “Uh huh.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Sure I do.”

She could always tell when he was lying. “Dee, I’m so –“

“Well,” he said right over the top of her, “no sense in wasting a fancy tux, right?” He scooted even farther away from her, turning on the spot once and spreading his arms wide to show off for some imaginary camera. He was all energy and unbridled smugness, but his face stayed dead and cold. “You stay here and rest up. Don’t wait up for me.”

He was out the door in the space of a heartbeat, leaving Charmer to call uselessly after him. She eventually hobbled up the stairs to her bed, wondering if six months would turn out to be their limit. She tried so hard not to cry.

But she failed.

\----

Deacon stopped dead the moment the door was shut behind him. He leaned back against the faded red door, undoubtedly picking up flecks of peeled paint all across the back of his tux. For the moment, thought, Deacon just didn’t give a shit. He could hear Charmer calling, then crying – just faintly, like the sound of a wind chime at the end of an alley when the night finds its darkest, loneliest ebb.

Christ, why did everything about her have to be so beautiful?

The trouble was that Deacon wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Not by a long shot. He pushed off the door – probably leaving little pieces of his heart clinging to the aging metal, if the ache below his sternum was anything to go on – and set off for the noodle stand. His half-iversary plan had been to dine-and-dash in black tie; carry Charmer across the green so she’d keep her high heels clean; climb the wall and take in the city lights while she trailed her fingertips across the back of his neck and he whispered things in her ear that made her giggle and coo. She liked to play pretend, imagine she was carefree. He did too.

But his blood was up now. Deacon didn’t trust. _Ever_. But he’d trusted Charmer, and he was beginning to wonder if that was a mistake.

He’d asked her to stop her solo support of the Minutemen because he was afraid of losing her. It was as simple as that. He was _terrified_ of losing her – not just to a bullet or a Mirelurk, but to that bright-eyed militiaman that looked at Charmer like she was an angel fallen from heaven. Shit, Deacon watched her in exactly the same way, and he would recognise the look anywhere: fragile delight tinged with a sort of reluctant, pathetic hope, all mixed together with a hearty helping of worship; the kind of adoration that the great Romantics wished they could describe. Let it go on too long unsatisfied and it would drain a heart of everything it had – and use the final reserves of the soul for back-up power.

Charmer had _lied_ to him. She’d lied to keep him away from Preston Garvey.

_Fuck._

Deacon could hardly bear to let the thought fully form. To even _think_ the words seemed to threaten to make them true.

Would Charmer cheat on him?

Deacon’s eyes were stinging. He wished he’d remembered to bring his sunglasses.

Deacon ordered his noodles and carried them over to the Dugout Inn. The Bobrov brothers wouldn’t like that, but what did he care?

“Nice suit.”

Deacon stopped eating with his fork halfway to his mouth. The speaker was a woman, lounging in the shadow cast by the inn’s sagging sheet metal roof. She’d been keeping so silent and still that she’d escaped Deacon’s notice. And she wasn’t just _any_ woman. She was utterly stunning: blonde, busty and beautiful in a clinging black dress. 

“You always dress like this when you eat alone?” She moved over to join him in the flickering lamp light as she spoke. She seemed to _flow_ rather than walk.

“It’s a tux, actually,” he answered breezily, as if his heart wasn’t going through a meat grinder at all. “And yes, of course I do.”

“Why?” She sat down uninvited in the chair opposite, watching him from beneath long, dark lashes. She was twirling a strand of honey-coloured hair around one long, manicured finger as she spoke.

Every man knew what _that_ meant.

“So that women like you will notice me.” Deacon felt a little sick, a little anxious, a little _despicable_ , flirting with this stranger while Charmer sat alone in an empty apartment, but if he stopped to think about it too long his imagination raced down paths he didn’t want to explore: laboured breathing, Charmer’s but not his; her fluttering eyelashes, quiet moans; hands that weren’t his, caressing her soft skin. Why should _he_ always be the scared one?

The woman was smiling. “And what does a woman like me do with a man like you?”

Deacon leaned forward, noodles forgotten, and trailed his fingers lightly across her wrist. His throat was burning, but the words came smooth as honey. Screw fear.

“Anything she wants.”

\---

Charmer didn’t sleep that night. She peeled off her clothing with salty cheeks and stinging eyes, wincing at every twinge in her side. She pulled on some clean panties and an old T-shirt and scavenged some left-over roast from the refrigerator. It was dry and tasteless, and any half-formed fantasies of Deacon returning to find her calmly chowing down quickly faded. She curled up in bed instead, lights off. Charmer shivered, though the blankets were pulled up to her chin.

The hours crawled by. She tried not to jump to any conclusions.

But she failed.

Her heart leapt into her throat when the door opened – just a quiet _snick, snick_ as the tumblers turned, but the sound seemed louder than machinegun fire. Deacon switched off the light as he tiptoed up the stairs, keeping quiet. He obviously imagined she was asleep. Morning light was filtering through the gaps in the ceiling.

Charmer hoped she was wrong about what had kept him out all night.

There was some quiet rustling as Deacon removed his clothes in the near-darkness, and a rush of cool air as he pulled back the covers to crawl into bed beside her. Charmer’s racing heart slowed slightly at the whisper of his breath across the back of her neck. He smelled like expensive aftershave and cut-price soap.

And women’s perfume.

For a moment, Charmer honestly thought her heart had stopped. A split second later it was in overdrive.

How _dare_ he?

She catapulted out of bed, wrenching free of the hand that had moved to rest on her hip. She stubbed her toe on the uneven flooring as she stumbled over to the wall, but she hardly felt it. She slammed down the light switch like a detonator.

“What –“ Deacon blinked owlishly in the sudden brightness, curled awkwardly against the headboard. His face was grey and his eyes were bloodshot.

Charmer’s chest seemed suddenly made of glass. Her heart _was_ still pounding, but her blood was cold, on the verge of crystallising. She wondered if Deacon could see it.

“Where have you been?” Charmer growled.

Deacon rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Out,” he snapped.

“Where?”

“Just around.”

If ice crystals hadn’t been clawing their way up Charmer’s throat, she might have laughed. How the fuck did _Deacon_ \- John D; the most bold-faced of liars – not have a decent story ready?

“Who was she?” Charmer’s voice cracked on the last word. She sounded crazy, but she knew she wasn’t. The ice had reached her extremities. She was shivering.

Deacon swung his legs over the edge of the bed, climbing to his feet but keeping the base between them. “Let’s not do this now, sugar. I’m tired. You’re half asleep. We can talk in the morning.”

“ _No!_ ” Her voice rang off the ceiling like a funeral song. She snatched up her pillow and flung it at him. He managed to block it with his forearm, and he stared at her in open-mouthed shock.

“Sugar –“

“Who _was_ she?”

In a heartbeat, Deacon had rounded the edge of the bed. Charmer was sluggish with cold and injury – he caught her by the wrists and pinned them on either side of her head, momentum carrying them both back into the wall. Charmer’s injured ribs were screaming, and the touch of his skin on hers was like fire.

“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked. She went to jam her knee into his groin, but he was expecting it, twisting his hips to protect his delicate parts and pin her in place with his thigh.

“ _Listen_ to me,” he hissed. His grip was not tight, not painful, but Charmer wanted to scream all the same. “I was at the bar. I talked to a woman. That’s it.”

“Then why do you smell like her perfume?” Charmer usually liked it when he lied; liked to frolic in the often whimsical worlds created by his words; liked to pretend miracles could happen, and that people like them could find happiness.

Deacon was breathing hard, trembling slightly, _vibrating_. Charmer could feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric of her shirt. He was staring into her eyes as if he could set her alight with his gaze. Maybe he could.

Charmer expected an answer. She got a question instead.

“Why did you lie about going to see Preston?”

Charmer could have cried. Could have screamed. Could have hit him. “I didn’t ‘go to see Preston’. I went to help the Minutemen.” Suddenly it hit her. “I’m _not_ cheating on you.”

Charmer had never really been able to describe the colour of Deacon’s eyes. Right now, they were cloudy and dark, tumultuous and disturbed, glinting in the weak light. “The woman was no one, sugar,” he said softly. “I was upset. I was angry with you. I flirted with her, I drank with her, and then I left. I _promise_.” His voice cracked; his gaze dropped to the floor. “I was scared.”

The ice in Charmer’s blood was singing, searching desperately for a harmony in Deacon’s quavering voice. She was lost in the lights reflecting in his eyes. She wanted to believe him. Desperately.

But she scoffed. “Tell me another one, Dee.”

“All right.” He leaned in close enough that his stubble scraped her cheek and his breath warmed her jumping pulse point. Charmer’s body reacted in the same way it always did: her heart slowed, her breathing calmed, and the ice in her veins melted.

How did he do this to her?

Deacon released her wrists, but she didn’t let them fall. He placed one hand on the back of her neck, the other on the small of her back. His words were almost a whisper; both a lie and a devastating truth, and his voice trembled as he spoke them.

“I’m _so_ not in love with you.”

“Good.” Jesus, she was _crying_ , her voice all thick and jagged. “Because I-“

She choked; couldn’t finish.

Deacon kissed her. She wound her arms around his ribs, clutching at his back like she would never let go, pathetically grateful he’d spared her the necessity of responding.

But she did it anyway. “Because I don’t love you either.”

Deacon removed his hand from her neck and caressed her cheek instead, drawing his thumb from her ears to her bottom lip. “Don’t take this the wrong way – but you’re not really a great liar, sugar.”

“Says you.” She nipped at his thumb playfully, and the atmosphere abruptly changed: less rain, more lightning.

“So you’re in love with your Minuteman, right?”

Deacon was a marvel: hard, but so brittle; smooth, his sharp edges hiding under a mountain of charm and one-liners. Most of all, he was vulnerable, ready to shatter at the slightest touch – Charmer had only to apply pressure in the right place.

“Oh yeah,” Charmer said. She kissed his collarbone gently, guiding his hand to her waist. The bruise was still tender, but she didn’t mind. “The man looks great in that hat.”

Deacon chuckled. “So do I.”

“I know. I’ve seen it.”

Abruptly, Deacon pushed her into the wall again, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “Straight-talking for a moment,” he muttered so quietly that Charmer almost couldn’t hear him. “I _am_ sorry. I’m an ass.”

“Me too. Maybe that’s why I like you so much, Dee.”

“Love.” His voice was rough in her ears. “I took very careful note of that word you used earlier.”

Charmer craned her neck to kiss his cheek. “Yeah.” She ran her palms gently upwards along the plane of his stomach, acutely aware of how little clothing each of them wore. “Love.”

Deacon hummed contentedly into the curve of her throat. “So just to confirm: that’s a come-on, right?”

“Damn right it is.”

Charmer felt him grinning against her skin as he slid one hand over the curve of her ass and squeezed. “Pity you’ve got so many clothes on then.”

“Poor baby.” Charmer tucked her head under Deacon’s chin, forcing his face upwards, and tugged down his briefs in one smooth movement. He was already half-hard (typical Deacon), and Charmer found herself mirroring Deacon’s grin. She kissed him, right where the skin of his throat met his jaw. Deacon murmured something unintelligible under his breath.

“What did you say?” Charmer had started kissing her way down his chest, lingering around his pectorals, her hands running up and down the tops of his thighs.

Deacon sounded a little flustered. “I _said_ \- how did I get so lucky?”

She snorted. “Flatterer.” But Charmer’s cheeks were warm, and she knew she was blushing. She kissed the flat of his stomach, just below his belly button, then his jutting hip bone –

Deacon took her by the shoulders and pulled her upright. A little bemused, and still grinning, Charmer followed his direction without complaint. He kissed her: fiercely, passionately – almost a little harshly. Charmer gave a moan that turned low and feral when she felt the rough pads of his fingertips dragging her panties down over her hips. Suddenly he spun her about, leaning into her, the weight of his body pressing her breasts and belly firm against the rough wallpaper. She still had her shirt on, but the material was thin, and the sensation was like sweet torture to her sensitive nipples.

Charmer could feel Deacon’s hardness pressed flush against the curve of her ass, but when he spoke, it wasn’t the dirty talk she’d expected. It lacked that heat; that tightly coiled passion. “I used to think you were totally out of my reach,” he whispered into her ear.

“That’s sort of sweet.” She turned her head far enough to feel his lips brush against her cheek. “Like I was unattainable?”

She felt him smile, and he ground himself against her hard enough to make her squeak. “Careful, Narcissus. Much more of that and I might get you confused with Maxson.”

Charmer laughed softly. “Maxson doesn’t have an ass like mine,” she murmured, deliberately rubbing back against him. That drew a soft grunt from Deacon, and Charmer couldn’t help but feel more than a little self-satisfied.

“How do you even know that?”

“Just a hunch. What did you actually mean?”

“Never mind.”

He entered her with one quick thrust, and Charmer made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a squeal of pleasure. He moved slowly at first, being careful with her, probably even still a bit jittery about their fight – but the best cure for nerves was undoubtedly to fuck them until they couldn’t walk, Charmer decided. 

“Harder,” she breathed. “Forget about the bruise.” Deacon swept her hair aside to kiss the base of her neck before obeying. Charmer moaned as he picked up the pace, arching her back as best she could, closing her eyes to lose herself in the feeling of being stretched around his cock. His grip on her hips was tight, but not bruising. His teeth nipped at her shoulder, but not hard enough to draw blood. Moaning, Charmer reached backwards to lay a hand gently across the back of his neck. He kissed her again, murmuring wordlessly into her sweaty skin, and if a nuke had fallen on them right that second, Charmer could have died happy. “Oh god, Dee-“

"You like that," he whispered. It wasn't a question. 

“ _Fuck_ , yes.” She knew he liked to hear her say it.

Deacon paused for a moment to adjust, pulling her hips slightly back from the wall, and Charmer took the opportunity to sneak her hand between her thighs and give her clit a few quick, firm strokes. She gasped softly as the fire in her belly burned hotter, higher, brighter. Behind her, Deacon groaned, caught between frustration at her interference and arousal so powerful it sounded like it physically hurt. He caught her fingers beneath his, tugging them away from her nub, and Charmer whined.

“Why not?” She panted. 

Deacon nipped at her neck. He began thrusting into her again, and Charmer almost forgot she’d spoken at all, because she was suddenly seeing stars. He was moving slowly again now, but deliberately, _powerfully_ , and Charmer was enraptured. She let her head fall back against his shoulder, moaning. Her thighs jerked violently when his fingers left hers and started rubbing tight, firm circles against her throbbing clit.

“Because I want to do _this_ ,” he growled. There it was: the heat; the passion; the _longing_.

“Oh God - _fuck_ \- Dee!”

Deacon grinned tightly against her shoulder as she came apart, his fingers and his cock relentless even as she shuddered and gasped and writhed. Her clenching walls eventually relaxed, and Charmer sagged against him, craning her neck desperately to kiss him - _anywhere_. She managed to reach the curve of his jaw, his stubble scratching at her lips and chin. His thrusts had grown shallow and uneven, his face contorted with pleasure.

He shouted as he came, pressing Charmer flush against the wall, his hands digging into her hips. They stayed like that for far longer than either of them meant to, their panting breaths loud in the silence, their damp skin slowly cooling. Charmer eventually shouldered Deacon backwards just enough for her to turn around and wrap her arms around his neck. His hands went up to her waist, almost automatically, and Charmer’s grin was so wide it made her lips sting. She kissed him deeply.

“Yep,” Deacon murmured when she pulled away. “Definitely don’t love you at all.”

“Oh _no_ , he’s a comedian.” Charmer walked him backwards until he tumbled back onto the bed, grinning like a fool. She straddled him and sat back on his thighs. “It’s a good thing you’ve got such a stony heart then, cause I’m _unattainable_.”

Deacon’s face went frighteningly blank, and for a moment Charmer thought she’d dug the barb too deeply. Then he reached out to stroke her hip. "I didn’t think you were unattainable. Everyone’s attainable, for somebody.” He said this matter-of-factly, as if he was reciting something he’d told himself a thousand times. “But I felt like we were - I don’t know - out of sync. Like we were both headed someplace, but not necessarily the _same_ place. And definitely not at the same time.”

Charmer wrinkled her nose. "Nope. I don't get it."

Deacon sighed long-sufferingly. “Okay, super nerd. Like I was the Silver Shroud and you were the Mistress of Mystery.”

"Oh. Right. Perfect for each other, but living too fast to notice.”

“Not _exactly_ -“

“Kept apart by pride and minor differences?”

“Um –“

Charmer snapped her fingers. “Whole, but broken. Untameable.” She paused, suddenly hit by the gravity of the subject. “But shackled by the past.”

Deacon lay in silence for a moment. “Well, _yeah_.”

“Hmm.” Charmer lay down beside him and snuggled up under his arm. She echoed a phrase he’d quoted to her – a very long time ago, now. She didn’t know where it came from. She didn’t really care. “Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell.”

Deacon smiled. It was equal parts sad and content. 

"Too late."


End file.
